


The Morrígan

by StorySharer



Category: American Gods (TV), American Gods - Neil Gaiman, Celtic Mythology
Genre: American Gods Inspired, Gen, Original Character Death(s), Shapeshifting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 17:34:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13058820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StorySharer/pseuds/StorySharer
Summary: A bartender's shift at a seedy bar suddenly becomes a bit more exciting than expected





	The Morrígan

**Author's Note:**

> First time posting any of my completed works ^_^  
> Thank you for your time!

A bar, smoky, one of the few left that allowed smoking inside. 

A handful of patrons were scattered around, all male. Except one.

Mostly unnoticed was a woman, who had arrived earlier in the day, and had been drinking since. 'Something to sip on', she had asked for, 'Surprise me'. She would occasionally signal for another glass.

A small band had been setting up for awhile and was finally ready to play. They sometimes flickered at the edges. Like old movies on worn film. Their clothes a bit old fashioned. 

You thought it best not to mention the flickering, or the fact there was no band scheduled today. 

The lead vocalist, dark skinned, with glittering eyes, stepped forward and began singing. With a hand signal, the drums and guitars started to back his crooning vocals. He kept his mouth close to the mike, as though it were a lover’s ear.

Once they'd started playing, the woman swayed a little in her place in the corner. 

By the chorus she was standing, still swaying, and all the patrons were watching her now. 

No one spoke as the band played on, now on the second verse.

As her sway'n turned to dancing, she moved to the center of the room, something almost feral in her movements. 

Twisting and writhing on the small dance floor. She smoothed her dress over her stomach and hips. Blinking you realize she's wearing a white dress with a black tree adoring it. The black berries embroidered among it's limbs had a purple-blue cast. It reminds you of something, but the thought slips away. 

The patrons had stood and gathered in a circle around her, swaying with the music now. As the band played on, flickering in and out of reality, more and more now, as they rumbled through the chorus again. 

A man reached for her, as the third verse started, and is grabbed by another, stopping him. They glared at one another until they are distracted by a tall man reaching for the woman between them. They both turned and punched him, nose and mouth bleeding as he went down, then they went for each other. A fourth man pulled a knife, slicing at the man standing next to him. 

The woman's lips, with her eyes closed, still twisting and writhing to the music, curved in a smile. Dark red lipstick, glossy, even after drinking all afternoon. Blood splatted her dress as chaos descended around her.

The battle never disrupted her dancing. Even as she slid her hands into her dark curls, red tipped nails twining through them. Grunts and gasps of pain could barely be heard over the music. She tilted her head back when the music reached a crescendo, singing the lyrics with a voice that could, did, drive men mad. 

The band having played the chorus for the third and final time, began flickering wildly.

As the notes faded out, bass guitar rumbling through the final chords, a man breathed his last. Burbling through the blood pooling in his mouth. The door to the bar opened and a sigh was heard, breaking the stillness. 

"Badhbh, do you always have to cause a mess?" 

You turn. There, framed in the doorway, were two woman. Terrible beauties, (the kind that make your heart seize and body want) wearing the same dress as the dancing woman, though not speckled with crimson, as her's is.

One with hair so red it looked like flames, haloed by the sun outside. The other's hair looked like mercury, as it poured over her shoulder. She'd bent down to close the eyes of one of the bodies next to her. 

The dancing woman-Badhbh-laughed as she slid her hands from her hair. "Macha! Nemain!" she crowed in greeting, "You know I get bored when left waiting and you kept me waiting a very long time." 

The woman with quicksilver hair rose from leaning over the final fallen man, (how had she moved so fast?). A enigmatic smile on her lips as she glided toward the band, spoke. "So sorry Badhbh," she purred, "I was...distracted on the way here. You know how rugby matches affect me in the Old Country."

Badhbh giggled, "You've always had a weakness for 'friendly fire', Nemain." 

Nemain's smile widened as she pressed her lips to the forehead of the lead singer. His form flickered one last time and black feathers appeared. Rippling down his face from her lipstick mark, before his body twisted into a large crow. She repeated the process with the rest of the band. 

The instruments faded from existence and you froze as the red head, Macha, turned to you. 

Her lips were all you could focus on as she hooked a finger into your collar and pulled you toward her over the bar. You close your eyes as her lips press onto your brow. 

Breathing in the scent of hawthorn blossoms, you remember your great Grandmother's hedgerows. And, as your body shuddered into it's new form, you recalled the stories she'd tell you. 

Tales of heroes and kings, tricksters and goddesses, and The Morrígan. Who came on the wings of crows, with the scent of death, inciting violence where're they went. 

Fin


End file.
